


leave the light on.

by hallowedhouse



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 80’s Music References, Alternate Universe, Dead Billy Hargrove, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunting, M/M, Nightmares, No one moves away, Past Character Death, Poltergeist references, Psychic Bond, planning on continuing this as a series with an eventual happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowedhouse/pseuds/hallowedhouse
Summary: It’s always the same, anyway. His brain is like a viewfinder with the reel stuck on the same snapshot, frozen in time. He can’t switch out the reel, he can’t look away, and he can’t move on.The image sticks. Billy sticks.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	leave the light on.

**Author's Note:**

> _‘These souls, who for whatever reason are not at rest, are also not aware that they have passed on. They're not part of consciousness as we know it. They linger in a perpetual dream state, a nightmare from which they cannot awake.’_

Billy Hargrove is dead.

Steve still dreams about him, some nights. Most nights. Billy, dying on the white-tiled floor of the Starcourt Mall. Blood pouring from his stomach, hands grasping. Chest heaving, stuttering. Max, screaming, running for him. 

Steve, rooted in place, watching. 

The blood is so dark and so vivid — soaking through Billy’s shirt, dripping through Steve’s fingers. Pooling around him, flowing out, covering everything. _Everything_.

It doesn’t seem to matter how he falls asleep — if it’s one of those rare nights when his parents are home and the house is warm and he falls asleep listening to his mom in the kitchen doing dishes, like he did when he was a kid. It doesn’t matter if he’s drifted off during movie night at the Wheeler’s, or during his shift at the rental store, or when the house is empty and the sleeping pills don’t work and he lies awake half the night, listening to the faucet dripping in the hall bathroom.

When he sleeps, he dreams, and in his dreams, Billy Hargrove is dead. 

But his eyes are open, and they’re watching him.

Steve doesn’t tell anyone. They all deal with nightmares, and sleepless nights, and weird shit they’d rather not talk about. That’s the trade-off, he thinks. They die — sacrifice themselves for _you_ — and you live, and then the guilt makes you wish you were dead, too. He gets used to it. 

It’s always the same, anyway. His brain is like a viewfinder with the reel stuck on the same snapshot, frozen in time. He can’t switch out the reel, he can’t look away, and he can’t move on. 

The image sticks. Billy sticks.

~.~

August rolls on, bleeds into a slow September. The days stay hot and the lawns stay dead. The pool stays brimming with kids in the after-school hours and all the way to sundown. 

The last dregs of summer, swirling down the drain. 

Steve drives by it every day after his shift, when the lifeguards in their red suits kick the stragglers out. Even when he works late, he’ll still see them out there; the beams of their flashlights roving over the deep end, sliding through the chain-link fence as they lock the gates in the blue, mellow twilight.

He hasn’t been there in months. The kids don’t go anymore. For Max.

It’s only at night that the heat ebbs and the chill kicks in. The temps swoop low enough that Steve starts turning the air conditioner off after dark, putters around the kitchen, reheating leftovers with the lights off and a blanket over his shoulders. The house is too still — like a museum, a morgue. That’s another trade off — putting up with the quiet, the total silence and the bad sleep, in favor of staying warm. 

The pills don’t work. The dreams are only getting worse. 

In the morning he wakes to frost on the windows and on the grass outside, already melting. 

~.~

It’s September, and the kids are back in school, adjusting to life again. Steve still drives them around when he can. There’s a drive-in theater a few miles out of town that his parents took him to once, and it’s a weekend. Steve doesn’t have any plans.

The kids spend the half hour before the movie in line at the concession stands, coming back loaded with popcorn and sodas and nachos with gooey cheese that will probably end up all over the seats by the time the movie’s over. They slam the doors when they get in and kick his seat a few dozen times, but it’s good. It’s nice. They’re all okay, laughing and joking and shoving each other in a fight for more room in the stuffed backseat, acting like any other group of middle schoolers. Dustin had called dibs the second he got in — which was unnecessary, since Steve picked him up first — and then rubbed it in the rest of the kid’s faces until Steve had to tell him to turn around and stop yelling. 

Steve gets a coke, sloshes the ice around as the lights dim and the movie starts. Everything smells like buttered popcorn and sugar and gasoline and the cold autumn air coming through the car window. Good, familiar things. 

It’s a good night, and Steve almost forgets — almost.

Dustin jumps out of the car. 

“Bathroom!” He says, slamming the door and rushing off. Steve sighs, ducks his head to look out the passenger window, makes sure he gets there. The place is packed, people milling around the concession stands, sitting out on the lawn beside it. 

And there he is.

The sound goes all muddled, melted, indistinct. The kids are arguing, throwing popcorn while a woman screams on the big screen, clutching her face in abject, black and white terror.

Sound slides away, but it doesn’t matter. Steve’s vision is all _technicolor_ ; sharp and shimmering and too-bright. 

There’s Billy Hargrove, half hidden by the crowd and the picnic tables with their orange plastic umbrellas, slouching against the side of the concession stand in his signature jacket and his scuffed up sneakers, hair gone all pink and haloed in the neon lights. 

There’s _Billy_ , at a stupid Friday night horror flick, all blue eyed and pale and _otherworldly_ , standing there with his face lifted towards the screen. Like the last few months never happened — like he’s just another guy, flicking embers from his cigarette, taking a drag, watching the smoke curl up and fade out.

Steve would know him anywhere. 

God. _God_ , Steve thinks. Shock, razor sharp and electric, pulses through him, raises the hairs on the back of his neck. A tidal wave of grief and anger and fear rise with it, bowls him over, hits him like vertigo.

Steve fumbles for the door handle, gets out of the car. Stands with a hand gripping the open door, staring over the top of the car at Billy, who hasn’t disappeared.

“Hargrove,” Steve says, almost shouts it — until he sees the blood dripping from the edge of his lip, sliding down the side of his neck. 

His white t-shirt is caked with dirt and blood, beneath his jacket. Bruises bloom over his cheekbones, the curve of his jawline.

Dustin reappears from out of the crowd, shoots Steve a weird look.

” _Dude._ You okay?”

Steve doesn’t answer. Dustin gets in the car.

Billy’s head turns, eyes locking unerringly on Steve. His eyes are glazed, sightless. 

Blood runs down his wrists, trickles down his fingers, into the dirt.

There’s Billy, who should be dead. 

Who _is_ dead. 

Steve gets in the car, shuts the door, turning the key in the ignition and trying not to shake. He throws the gear-shift into reverse and peels out of the lot, weaving through the parked cars, heart thudding hard. Dustin is protesting, but he ignores it, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. 

The crowd at the concession stand stares as he drives past, too-fast. Steve doesn’t look.

He doesn’t look.

~.~

He doesn’t slow down, either. Not until he’s miles away, driving down a country road, between the cornfields and the deep blackness of night. No light except the distant glow from rural farmhouses, the clock on the dash blinking _11:00,_ the sweep of the yellow headlights over the black pavement.

He’s forced to stop, finally, at an intersection. The light switches red just as he pulls under it, vivid as blood.

He stares at it, then tears his eyes away. Looks down at his hands. Tries to get a grip.

His hands are still shaking.

“Steve? _Steeeve,_ ” Dustin’s voice is muddled, distant, becoming clearer. “Guys, I think there’s something wrong with Steve.”

“Maybe he’s possessed.”

“That isn’t funny, Mike!” Dustin yells, and there’s the sound of fighting from the backseat. 

“Guys, _shut up,_ ” Steve says, as loudly as he can. It helps, clears his head. “I’m taking you home.”

“What?” Dustin says, appalled. “No! This is movie night, Steve, you promised!”

“Yeah, well,” Steve mutters. When he blinks, he sees him leaning there — haloed and bloodstained, all of his nightmares come to life. Dread catches thick at the back of his throat. “Plans change.”

“Are you sick?” Dustin demands, leaning over the front seat to get a good look at him. “Are you going to throw up or something?”

Steve swallows. Nods. “Yeah. It’s possible.”

“Ugh,” Dustin groans, but he pats him on the shoulder. “Fine. But you’re coming to movie night next week, okay? _No buts,_ Steve. I don’t want to hear it.”

Steve bats him away, groaning.

“Whatever.” Lucas says, voice bored. “That movie sucked, anyway.” 

“No it didn’t!” Dustin protests.

“It totally did, dude. Those ghosts were boring.”

“Maybe if you were actually paying attention instead of making _googly_ eyes at your _girlfriend—_ ”

“I have a name, dweeb.” Max cuts in, annoyed. “And that’s not true so just shut your face.”

The argument continues.

Steve taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Red light floods the intersection, floods the car. It’s deserted except for them. He considers gunning it. 

“It was lame dude, just admit it,” Mike says, mouth full of popcorn. “It didn’t even make any sense.”

“They’re confused,” Will says. His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. “The ghosts. They think they’re still alive.”

It’s the first thing he’s said all night. Steve glances at him through the rear-view mirror, but the kid’s staring out the window, lost in his own world.

“They don’t know they’re dead,” he says. “Now they’re trapped.”

The light changes.

Steve turns onto the highway and leaves the country road behind, rolls his window down as far as it can go, lets the dull roar of the wind dampen everything else.

~.~

Steve drops the kids off — Lucas and then Mike and then Dustin, who slams the door behind him.

Max is last, like always. She climbs into the front seat and pulls her knees to her chest, swoops her red hair over her shoulder, turns her face to the window.

The drive to her house is quiet. 

“Thanks, Steve.” She mutters, when he’s pulled into the drive. She pushes the door open, hesitates. 

“I heard what you said,” she says. “At the drive in.”

Steve opens his mouth — closes it again. This is Max, who still tears up at random, who won’t go to the pool anymore, who goes quiet and distant and who has to go into that house and sleep in her bed, only a wall between her and that empty room. Who gets so angry if anyone talks about any of it. There’s anger on her face now.

“I know what they all think of him.” She says, voice hard. She’s gritting her teeth. “And some of it’s true. I know that. _I know._ ” She hesitates — then grimaces, shaking her head, like the words are painful to say. “He did bad things. I _know,_ okay? I was there.”

Steve swallows, hard. “Max—”

She looks up at him, suddenly, and her eyes are wet and her mouth is twisted and her face is flushed and _enraged._ It stops him cold. “I miss him too, alright? That’s all I wanted to say. Even — even though he doesn’t deserve it.”

She climbs out of the car and jogs to the door, slipping inside without looking back. Steve watches her go, and then keeps sitting there, car idling. 

There’s a lamp glowing in the upper floor window of an empty room. 

Steve goes home.

~.~

It was a hallucination.

That’s what they call dreams that happen when you’re awake, isn’t it?

~.~

Steve takes the video, scans the barcode. Then the next, and the next.

“Horror buff, huh?” He says.

The guy grins, shrugging. He digs out a crumple of bills, drops them on the counter. He’s got one arm slung around his girlfriend, who’s chewing gum and examining the candy bars, expression bored.

“Yeah,” the guy drawls, tilting his head towards the girlfriend. “But she can’t handle the gory stuff, man. Freaks her out.”

“Right,” Steve says. He pushes down the images that come up — shoves them back. He’s not gonna think about it. Not now. “That’s... yeah.”

The guy quirks a brow. “Yeah.”

He bags the videos. Hands him his change.

He follows them to the door when they leave, locks it behind them and flips the sign over. 

The street outside is murky, a damp mist setting in, the pavement black and slick with rain. Some of the shops have already started putting up Halloween decorations; plastic pumpkins and cobwebs and hanging skeletons. 

Billy is there, standing across the street, under the orange glow of a streetlamp. Billy’s _corpse_ , Steve thinks. Walking upright, looking in at him. Following him.

He’d thought he’d seen him from the corner of his eye at least a dozen times since that first night, weeks ago — and now there he is. It’s a persistent hallucination, one Steve can’t shake. 

He should talk to someone about it, he thinks, idly. Get some help.

A car passes, and he’s gone. 

~.~

Steve pulls up to the house an hour later, unlocks the doors so Dustin can throw his sleeping bag into the backseat.

“This is going to be _epic._ ” Dustin says, practically radiating excitement. He buckles his seatbelt, gives Steve a wide, toothy smile. “The whole gang’s coming tonight. Mike rented _Poltergeist._ ”

“Great,” Steve mutters. He checks the side mirror, catches a glimpse of bloodied jeans and sneakers standing near the tail lights.

Steve tears his eyes away, pulls the car onto the street. Doesn’t look back again.

Anything’s better than watching _The Dark Crystal_ for the fourth time, at least.

~.~

They hit a drive thru, order food — burgers and fries and milkshakes, a side of onion rings. It’s Steve’s penance for ruining Friday night, along with actually _staying_ for movie night this time. 

_It’s a time-honored tradition_ , Dustin says, frequently — one Steve usually skips out on, in favor of driving around town aimlessly or loitering at the supermarket, where he can space out for an hour under the fluorescent bulbs, wander around the aisles stocking up on bread and milk and four different kinds of microwave pizza and shut his brain off completely. 

It’s easier that way. Easier than sitting there, in a room with all of them — all of their shared experiences and their shared grief. 

Steve rolls up to the window, hands the cashier the money, takes the greasy white bag when she holds it out. She’s vaguely familiar — someone from high school, maybe. Blue eyes and blonde hair. She seems to recognize him, anyway, flashing a smile as she hands the milkshakes over, eyes interested. Her name tag says Cindy, in big, looping letters. 

“Harrington, right?” She says, leaning down. “Anything else I can get ya?”

Steve looks up at her, at her teasing smile, the dip of her uniform top. His eyes slide past her, to the slice of white tile floors and green plastic seats he can see over her shoulder.

To Billy, standing at the counter, looking back at him.

_Harrington,_ he mouths, soundless. 

Steve’s mouth goes dry. His hands begin to shake.

“ _Oookay_ then,” Cindy says, her smile fading. “Have a nice night.” 

She shuts the window. 

The car behind him honks. 

~.~

They eat in the parking lot, heater on blast, radio turned up.

Steve doesn’t touch his burger, his stomach rolling, the taste of bile thick at the back of his throat. He swallows it down, tries to think clearly — past the haze of dread and fear clinging to him.

It’s like he’s stuck in that silent pause before a jump scare in a horror film; muscles tense, coiled, tension building.

_Harrington,_ he’d said.

“You’re acting weird,” Dustin says, squinting at him. He takes a bite of his burger, ketchup dribbling down his chin. “You’ve _been_ acting weird for like, weeks. Nobody else notices, but I do.” He waves a hand towards the drive-thru, nearly knocking over his fries. “I mean, what was that? She was totally hitting on you, Steve, and you didn’t do anything! Are you sick? Are you _dying?_ ” 

Steve rolls his eyes, picks his shake up and takes a drink. It’s strawberry. Too thick and too sweet. It makes his stomach turn. “Geez, kid, I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Are you still hung up on Nancy?” Dustin asks, ignoring him. “You’re freaked ‘cause you’re gonna see her tonight, huh? And she’s with Jonathon now.”

“That’s—” Steve cuts off with a sigh, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not _hung up_ on _Nancy._ I’m _fine,_ alright? Just drop it.”

The rain starts up again. Steve flicks on the windshield wipers. The last chords of _Dancing in the Dark_ fades out. _Hungry like the Wolf_ begins.

“Things are _just_ getting back to normal, Steve,” Dustin says, eyes earnest. “Whatever you’re dealing with, we can handle it. We can handle it.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“I mean it. You’ll tell us if something’s really wrong, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Steve grabs a wad of napkins, shoves it at him. Avoids his gaze. “Come on, dude, you’re drooling. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, mom,” Dustin says, stuffing a handful of fries in his mouth. 

~.~

Poltergeist’ s halfway through its run-time, and Steve is fidgeting. The rain is coming down harder now, flooding the grass outside the high, narrow windows. 

Steve can see the leaves on the shrubs shaking in the wind, lightning flashing. He’s tense, distracted — eyes flickering to the windows every few seconds. Each time expecting white sneakers, pale hands banging at the windows. It never happens.

Will and Dustin are on sleeping bags on the floor, everyone else piled onto couches. The basement is cramped and all the lights are off, except for the tv. 

He’s not paying attention to the movie — it’s a murmuring in the background, mangled up with his own silent panic, his own twisting thoughts. 

_“They think they're still alive?”_

_“Yes. Maybe they didn't want to die. Maybe they weren't ready.”_

_Curling lips. Sharp, white teeth. Harrington, he mouths._

El looks over at him, suddenly, curled up between Mike and Max on the other couch. Her eyes wide and dark and inscrutable. Looks _through_ him.

~.~

Steve escapes upstairs.

Nancy’s in the kitchen, standing with the refrigerator door open, holding a can of coke. There’s popcorn rotating in the microwave, just starting to pop.

She looks surprised when she sees him — blinks, then schools her expression. Ducks her head back into the refrigerator, pulls out another coke. 

She’s wearing a sweater she used to wear when they were dating. Steve remembers kissing her while she was wearing it; fisting his hands in it, pulling it off her. 

The memory doesn’t make him feel anything anymore, he realizes, vaguely. Just sad, in a distant, muted way — and relieved, too. Relieved because she has someone else, now; someone who isn't so messed up inside, like he is, so close to falling apart. Someone who isn’t Steve. 

God knows she doesn’t deserve that. No one does.

“Hey, Nancy,” Steve says, taking the coke when she holds it out. It fizzes up when he snaps it open, bubbles pooling around the top. 

Nancy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a free hand, giving him a lopsided smile, only slightly awkward. “Steve,” She says, voice warm. “Didn’t think you’d show tonight.”

Steve shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “What, and miss my chance at another middle school sleepover? Yeah, right.” 

She snorts, shakes her head. “Oh, right. I forgot how much you liked those. Sorry.”

“At least they’ve finally moved on from _Labyrinth_ and _The Dark Crystal_.”

“Ah yes. From puppets to poltergeists.”

Steve grins. “It’s an upgrade.”

Nancy shrugs, crossing her arms over her stomach. “Maybe. I don’t know why they like watching that stuff, though. Blood and monsters and ghosts. You’d think they’d had enough of that already.”

The microwave beeps. Nancy clicks it open, pulls the popcorn bag out with two fingers. 

Steve swallows, crosses to the sink. His eyes flit to the window above it, then away. 

“Hey, Nance?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen anything, lately?”

She turns to him. Sets the bag on the counter. “What do you mean?”

“Just — anything weird. Anything that… shouldn’t be there.” He wants to take the words back as soon as he’s said them, stuff them back down. But he can’t. They’re in the air now, lingering between them.

Nancy’s expression is wary, now. Concerned. “Why are you asking?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. Forget it, Nance.”

Her eyes are soft when he meets them. Pitying. He has to look away.

“Nothing’s coming back, Steve,” she says, quietly. Firmly, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as him. “Hopper — he _died_ making sure nothing _could._ Not anymore. I have to believe it wasn’t in vain.”

“What if it was?” Steve asks. Lightning flashes out the window. “What if things are coming through— coming back again?” He sees the realization cross her face, the fear that follows it. “Would we even know if there was?” 

Nancy goes silent. Rain beats against the roof, slides down the window panes. Steve thinks of Billy, standing out in the storm. Waiting for something — waiting for _him._ He doesn’t have to look. He knows he’s there — can feel him, like a thrumming under his skin, like a frequency only he can hear. A small disquiet, always at the edge of his perception. 

Nancy steps closer, touches his sleeve. 

“I know that it’s stupid to think that nothing bad is ever going to happen again, but Steve, we _have_ to. We can’t keep living like there’s something out there in the dark, waiting to strike. It’s time to move on.”

Steve holds her gaze. “What if I can’t?”

The front door opens. Jonathon appears, shaking the rainwater out of his hair, carrying a bag of groceries under one arm. 

“Oh. Steve.” He says, noticing them standing there, closer than usual. Looks between them, brow creasing. He moves into the kitchen, hesitating at the door frame. “Is there something wrong?”

Nancy steps away from him, shakes her head. “Just talking.”

“I gotta go, actually,” Steve says, already heading for the door. “Tell the kids goodbye for me, alright?”

“Steve, don’t—” Nancy calls after him, but he’s already gone — slipping out the door before anyone can stop him.

~.~

The house is cold, empty. He shrugs his coat off, takes off his shoes. 

There are no more leftovers. He makes a peanut butter sandwich, stands at the sliding doors while he eats, staring out at the blue glow of the pool.

The door is closed, and locked. Has been for months. Steve can still smell the chlorine, anyway. 

His bed is unmade, pillows crumpled, sheets half on the floor. Steve turns a lamp on, tugs his t-shirt over his head and changes into his pajamas. 

The radio on his desk is on, tuned to a dead channel. All static and noise. Steve goes to it, turns the knob until he finds a station.

“ _I think we’re alone now,_ ” a voice sings over the radio — all distorted, wavering in and out. “ _There doesn’t seem to be anyone around_.” 

Steve leaves it playing, looks out his window at the sprinklers rotating on the lawn, the front gate swinging in the wind. 

Billy’s standing there, beneath the arbor covered in dead vines. Staring up at his window; at Steve, behind the glass.

He meets his gaze.

“ _I think we’re alone now. The beating of our hearts is the only sound_.”

Steve switches the music off. Shuts the curtains.

Tries to sleep.

~.~

There’s no Starcourt Mall this time. No blood. Steve is standing on a windswept beach in the early morning, the rising sun so bright it makes him squint. 

There’s a boy wading in the water, the foamy tide lapping around his ankles. His pants are rolled at the hem, his face lifted to the sun. 

“ _Billy?_ ” Steve says, stumbling in the sand. “ _Billy!_ ”

Billy’s head turns. He’s so much younger, tan and barefoot, hair a mess, but it’s him.

Steve would know him anywhere. 

He steps out of the waves, coming towards him. The wind buffets him back, hard.

“ _Harrington?_ ” Billy shouts over the wind, voice far away. “ _Where are we?_ ”

Steve struggles to get to him, but the wind drives into him, too, holding him back. His feet sink into the sand, further and further down.

“ _Stay there!_ ” Steve yells. “ _I’ll find you!_ ” 

The sky splits open — a chasm of white light and a high, screeching sound, consuming everything, everything —

“ _I can’t,_ ” Billy says. “ _This place — it’s not real—_ “

Steve covers his eyes, turns away —

~.~

He jolts awake in the early hours just before dawn, heart thudding hard in his chest. The radio has switched back on, the static of a dead channel buzzing low beneath the sound of his gasping breaths.

He scrambles up, stumbles to the window.

There’s a layer of frost on it, and on the lawn outside, and a trail of footprints imprinted in the grass, leading out the gate.

**Author's Note:**

> _80’s music mentioned: Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen, Hungry Like The Wolf by Duran Duran, I Think We’re Alone Now by Tiffany. Quotes used are from Poltergeist._
> 
> I wanted to post this before Halloween, since this is my _spooky ghost story_ for the year lol. I have a plan to continue this as a multi-part series, and the first couple paragraphs of a sequel already down. Let me know what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
